


B-Sides and Parallels

by town_without_heart



Series: When Lightning Strikes [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/town_without_heart/pseuds/town_without_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots, character introspectives, and snippits set in the "Bolt from the Blue" universe. These have no bearing on the actual story, but you might enjoy them anyway. Character tags and warnings from original story may apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Barry-POV: Voicemails

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! So, Bolt from the Blue is told (almost) exclusively from either EoWells’ or Len’s point of view. But just because certain scenes don’t jive with that format doesn’t mean they don’t happen, and this is where I’ll be posting those scenes.
> 
> Some will likely be inspired from the amazing people who review and prompt me without even realizing what they’re doing (see below), and some are scenes that are just floating around in my head that I get the itch to put to paper. There is no set length for these – could be 800 words, could be 8000. Either way, they will probably not make any sort of sense unless you read Bolt from the Blue.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  **Prompt from reader Joyouslee:**  
>  “Oh, I was rereading the story – ahem, I won’t mention how often I do that – and wondered about the phone messages that Len left Barry at the time the lightning hit – will Barry ever get those? I hate the idea that they never reach Barry, since they showed Len worrying about Barry.”
> 
>  **Set during:** Chapter 8

***

When Barry Allen opens his eyes, he doesn’t know where he is. There is a woman – pretty, though unsmiling – flashing a pen light into his eyes, and a guy about the same age as himself, wide-eyed with wonder. There is a strange, disjointed feeling he gets when moving his arms and his legs, like these muscles and bones don’t belong to him. They’re really similar to the ones that are his – they’re even connected in all the right places – but they feel new, fresh out of the box. It’s disconcerting.

These people are weird. They’re talking about things that don’t make any sense – struck by lightning? In a coma? What the heck? Where are Joe and Iris? Where’s Len? – because the last thing he remembers is standing in the middle of his lab, soaked to the bone and struggling to close the ceiling window, and Captain Singh is going to _kill_ him, like, for reals, all of that water damage. There will be black mold growing underneath the floor boards and it’s _all his fault_.

So he’s a little out of sorts, being poked and prodded, and his stomach feels tight in a completely unfamiliar way – _lightning gave me abs? The heck?_ – and he’s really, really hungry. Like, he could probably go for one of everything from Big Belly Burger’s menu right now, and he really hopes his stomach doesn’t make embarrassing noises in front of these people, but they’d probably understand because they’re the ones who’ve been telling him he’s been in a coma for nine months– 

–oh God. Barry lifts one arm as surreptitiously as he possibly can to discretely sniff under it. He smells delightful. Oh, God, which one of them did it? Which one of them has been giving him sponge baths for the better part of a year?

Horror, lovecraftian in nature, like spiders crawling on his skin. Oh, God, _what if they took turns?_

And then, because it’s not as if his day isn’t surreal and kind of awful but getting better? Holy bananas, that’s Harrison Wells, in a wheelchair, smiling at him and saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Allen.”

Harrison Wells. Like, Barry’s brain just – stops. Like a hamster on a wheel that just suffered an aneurysm because nothing makes any sense right now. Harrison Wells is not the sort of idol Barry has ever even dreamed of being on a name-to-name basis with, and that sort of effortless familiarity is– 

–oh God. What if _Harrison Wells_ is responsible for the sponge baths?

Is there a way to disappear in the blink of an eye? Can he, like, melt through this floor into a tiny puddle of his own shame right now?

And then they’re walking – or wheeling – and that’s not politically correct, there’s got to be a better way to say it, but he can’t even begin to process right now. He’s babbling out loud, mouth running a mile a minute but he’s pretty sure he’s managed to fanboy over Dr. Wells, express his general confusion, and ask what’s going on in such a way that he might get an answer that makes sense. He is cognizant enough that at the end of it all, he at least excuses himself with a “Sorry. I’m sorry. I babble when I’m nervous.”

And then the corner of Harrison Wells’ mouth quirks up and the eyes behind those bulky black glasses go sort of crazy intense as the man asks smoothly, “I make you nervous?”

That hamster in Barry’s brain? The one that suffered an aneurysm not five minutes ago? Yeah, that little guy isn’t having the best day right now, because he literally spontaneously combusts into a raging inferno, fueled by spotted fur and an excess of wood chips. There are fuses in Barry’s brain and all of them short circuit simultaneously, because, “I. Was that. Did you just flirt?” Barry can’t actually believe he’s voicing this thought out loud, but he’s equally helpless to stop it. “Did I just get flirted at by the great Harrison Wells?”

Dr. Wells doesn’t give him a straight answer, just this sort of sexy, enigmatic smile, and there’s some scientific information that’s helpful and relevant, and he’s able to pay attention to that for the most part. Barry’s sort of stuck on that “sexy” thing though. Not the Dr. Wells sexy thing because that’s – well, that’s not ever going to happen, right? He’s imagining things or maybe the man is just super nice to all the coma patients who wake up confused and disoriented in his labs. 

Um. Yeah, not Harrison Wells sexy, rather Leonard Coulter sexy. Because Barry’s on-again off-again cross-country booty call (or is it caller? Like, is there a distinction?) is very, very sexy and Barry may or may not have fallen in love with him with sometime between getting a phone number on a scrap of napkin and getting slammed up against the back wall of an alley. In all honesty, maybe that was moving way too fast because Barry’s only ever been in love with one other person, but Iris is never going to look at him like that, and that’s – that’s okay. He doesn’t need to change one of the best friendship’s he’s ever had and complicate it with unrequited feelings, and it sort of feels like fate that he met Len at a bar the exact same day he came to this conclusion.

“I.” Barry swears he’s missing pieces of the conversation happening around him, but he’s got to know– “Was there. Did anyone else come to see me?”

“Joe West, of course,” Dr. Wells replies. “A few officers from the station. Was there someone in particular?”

“I. No.” Barry frowns and shakes his head. “I thought, maybe... but I guess not.”

It’s been nine months. He and Len never made any promises, not really, and it’s ridiculous, but Barry finds that he’s hoping? That just maybe there is something more to this relationship than amazing sex. Actually, he hadn’t known how much he hoped until now, because he’s just woken up from nine months in a coma and he really wishes that a pair of intense, blue eyes and a cocky smirk were there to greet him.

Maybe there’s a good reason for Len’s absence? Nine months is a long time. What if something _happened_ to Len? Like a car accident or a bar accident or – or a plane falling out of the sky and landing on him? Well, okay, that last one is probably completely out of left field, but Barry is getting a sort of sinking feeling in his gut and he needs to go home and get his cell phone right now.

(And also stop by Jitters and see Iris and go to the police station and hug Joe and – oh, heck, his _dad_. His dad is probably going completely insane in prison, he’s got to get to Iron Heights right now–)

Wishing he could go faster than humanly possible and silently cursing his own limitations, Barry says, “I need to go.”

They all protest, but there are people who Barry loves who have no idea that he’s awake, and thinking about any of them suffering – because of him! – is slow torture. He’s got to go right now because he’s got to fix this. He didn’t even know anything was broken, but that’s not an excuse – though maybe being in a coma is? Oh, this is all incredibly confusing.

There is one thing that is incredibly clear, even amidst all of Barry’s mental panic, and that’s the fact that the three people in this room saved his life. Like, they don’t know him and he is literally _nothing_ to them, but they saved him and he is never, ever going to forget that. He grabs the woman’s hand, the young guy’s hand – pumps them up and down and tries to make them understand how much he appreciates everything they’ve done for him.

And then he’s shaking Harrison Wells’ hand – omigod, he’s touching Harrison Wells, he seriously may never wash this hand again – and saying, with complete sincerity, “Thank you.”

_Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for giving me a second chance. Thank you for choosing to help me – out of all the people in this city who probably deserve it more. Thank you, thank you, thank you._

That first day is a mess. There is so much happy crying that Barry is pretty sure he’s all tear’ed out. Just, like, totally drained of everything emotional. Between Iris’s exuberance and Joe’s massive bear hugs – which may possibly have realigned his spine so he doesn’t actually need to make that appointment with the chiropractor, so there’s that – and his dad.

Oh, God. Barry cringes a little because he literally spent thirty minutes sitting across from his father while they both cried like little girls. Separated by a pane of thick plastic, hands aligned on the plastic like they were performing a Vulcan mind-meld. Only, y’know, without that super dexterous split in between the fingers that Barry may or may not have spent the better part of his childhood perfecting. But yeah, not even joking, _thirty minutes_.

So when he calls Len’s phone number and gets a mechanical woman’s voices saying, “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service–” all he feels is a sort of repressed numbness that sinks to the bottom of his stomach and gnaws at the Big Belly Burgers he’d scarfed down earlier. Because of course, Len changed his number.

–only there’s some legitimate panic in Barry’s brain. A new hamster has taken the wheel and thoughts are churning out as fast as those tiny little hamster feet can spin ‘em. Barry doesn’t know where Len’s house is, has only ever met up with the other man at hotels overnight. Barry doesn’t know where Len’s bar is, has never been there and was too nervous to ask about it again, having had his inquiries politely shot down more than once. Barry doesn’t have Len’s number – and all signs point to the same reality, that Barry doesn’t have any way of contacting Len to let him know that he’s awake. 

It’s probably a good thing that Barry is too mentally and emotionally exhausted after his first day awake to cry, because right now? He’s feeling pretty damned horrible.

(And when he checks his voice mails a few days later, only to be greeted with a series of messages from Len on the day the accelerator exploded – 

“Barry, call me back.”

“Barry, kid, call me back.”

“Barry. Barry, please.” – oh, and that last one, it actually hurts. Len never says please, except, of course, for when he does – “Please, call me back.”

Barry bangs his head against the wall, thinking of lightning and amazing speed and a world of unknown possibilities, and mutters, “I would. But you changed your number again. Jerk.”)

***


	2. Multi-POV: Conspiracy, Capital C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit different than my usual style. Hopefully it works!
> 
>  **Set during** : (all over the place, actually) / Companion piece to Chapter 34

***

To begin, one must first accept that the universe, infinite and terrible, is not sentient. It does not think as a human being might, nor does it act upon instinct like an animal. It cannot weigh options, separating the good from the bad, selecting the best from the worst. It is not capable of assigning moral relevance to action, and it cannot distinguish between the righteous and the wicked. It is not cognizant, nor can it communicate by spoken word or written thought. 

No, the universe is not sentient. It is, however, _alive_.

Consider the universe, in essence, a single biological cell. Granted, a really, really big cell that stretches as far as imagination can reach. Its many pieces and parts function separately, but together these actions become the cogs that interlock, an intricate and mindless dance. This process is a constant and never-ending cycle of birth, death, and rebirth – the spiral of celestial bodies, the fusion of stars shining brightest before they burn, the swirl of cosmic dust and inevitable decay.

To fully grasp the gravity of this realization, so too must one accept that the universe exists on a parallel axis, rather than a linear plane. It exists in space, of course, but also in _time_. Infinite and terrible, because it was, it is, and it will be. And so, expanding this thought, or perhaps simplifying it, leads to the following truth: the universe exists, simultaneously, at every point in both time and space. 

When coupled with the understanding that the universe is alive, a second truth is attained – that the universe has a certain – involuntary – awareness. Through endless cycles of birth and death, fulfilling its primary purpose of existence just as the cell of any biological organism might, there is a sense of order. But when changes to time and space occur – changes that are not part of the natural cycle – chaos is born. And the universe does notice.

Point A is connected to Point B. An alteration to the timeline causes a diversion. Now Point A is connected to Point Z. When this happens, the universe will take whatever action is needed to correct that change so that Point A and Point B are once again connected, reestablishing order and natural flow. Which is not to say that everything will be the _same_ as it once was, because that sort of autonomous control is impossible and sort of stupid. 

But the ends will be the same, even if the means are different.

For example, consider a river. There is a fallen tree trunk stretched from one bank to another, and it partially blocks the flow of the water. In the original timeline, this tree was never meant to fall, but a theoretical time-traveling woodsman caused a series of unfortunate events and brought about the untimely death and subsequent displacement of this tree.

The universe has options: heavy rainfall, perhaps, which will flood the river and cause the water to overflow onto the banks. With enough water, and enough time, the tree may be dislodged. It is also possible that the tree may cause the river to divert, and a new, natural bypass will be formed for the water to travel. Perhaps animals will use this tree as a bridge to cross the river, and a beast with enough weight may inadvertently cause the tree to roll free of its muddy prison. 

The universe will find a way to do its job, regardless of the obstacles placed in its path. It is simply a matter of discovering the correct combination of events needed, and the universe will seek out these corrective actions relentlessly. It will cycle through an exhaustive list of possibilities and probabilities, and it will not stop until the connection between Point A and Point B is restored.

(That connection may now run _through_ point Z, where is never did before, but the point stands.)

Some people refer to this as the hand of fate. Some cite these events as coincidence. Neither definition is entirely incorrect. But for the purpose of the previous explanation, it is enough to know this: the universe is not sentient, and yet somehow it still manages to _conspire_.

***

The year is 2152. The Monster is born.

This child does not look like a monster. He does not have sharp, pointy teeth, nor an inherent desire to do harm. His eyes do not glow with inner malice, and he appears to be a boy like any other.

He is intelligent, certainly – lauded as a genius, even. He is praised, but so too is he isolated. It is not until nearly twenty years later that he will meet a man who looks at him, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners, smiling. It is the sort of smile the Monster has only ever seen directed at other children, at those unassuming creatures who are so much _less_ than him– 

(but if they are so much less, why is it they are loved so much more?)

–and the world makes _sense_. For the first time in his life, he is not alone, and even if Beloved does not belong completely to the Monster, it is enough that he can claim a small part of the other's attention, affection, for himself. It is so strange, that the man never once looks at him as though he is afraid – of his genius, of his intensity, of his burning thirst to _prove_ himself – rather, in those rare moments, Beloved looks at him as though he cannot believe the Monster is real.

(there is a spark of – something – in those blue eyes, from the very beginning)

But the Monster is blind to the danger. He does not understand enough to know what that look means, is unable to erect the walls that have been so successful in keeping every other creature at bay. He is without protection, and what is worse is that he doesn’t even think he needs to be protected. Not from Beloved, from the only person in this world who truly understands him.

This is the beginning and this is the end, and there is betrayal and the Monster does not understand.

(why would you do this to me? a child – monster – rages)

And in the end, the Monster will never have pointy teeth, though his smile is sharp enough to cut. And the desire to do harm is not inherent; it is learned. Years in the future, he will attain eyes that glow red, and as he grows from a child to a man, he will become the stuff of nightmares.

The Monster travels back in time to destroy.

Interestingly enough, this is not the first ripple, though it is by far the most violent.

***

The year is 2014. There is a man who is very meticulous in his planning. He likes to know how things will play out, down to the last second. It takes quite a bit to knock him off his game.

As it so happens, quite a bit is going on. For example, the man has learned that the love of his life is trapped, helpless, in a place of scientific experimentation. This place is responsible for putting Beloved in a coma, and this place has been systematically kidnapping people off the streets for an indeterminate period of time, for reasons that have yet to be revealed. To top it off, this place is affiliated with the Monster who murdered Beloved’s mother, more than a decade ago.

This place is made of walls, like any other. Walls aren’t going to keep a meticulous man out. Especially not a meticulous man who happens to be sitting on a rocket launcher he picked up a few weeks ago. A rocket launcher that was, rather ironically, acquired at the same time and in the same place where he stole a weapon specifically designed to combat the Monster.

(A weapon which was designed by that place of science and walls, henceforth referred to as the Castle. The universe, as previously mentioned, conspires.)

And so this man, this meticulous man, sick with repressed worry for Beloved, makes a plan. He will take matters into his own two hands, armed heavily with weapons capable of killing the Monster. He will storm the Castle, and he will mount a rescue. He will not be useless, impotent in his fear, his rage.

The meticulous man has been watching the Castle for a couple of weeks, now. He has been taking note of the people who come and go, watching video surveillance and gathering information. So he knows, roughly, the schedules of the Broken King, the Ice Queen, and the Tinkerer. He knows when the cleaning crews come – early mornings, always. He knows that the cheap security shows up late, primarily covering the hours when no one is present in the building.

Perhaps he might have decided upon a different course of action, given more time, but he is worried. Beloved is not safe; something must be done.

Still, it is one thing to rush in prematurely. It is something else entirely to rush in with no plan at all. The meticulous man has a plan; it has simply been pushed forward to suit his needs. Three objectives: first, rescue Beloved. Second, kidnap the Ice Queen. Third, deal with the impossible humans.

What the meticulous man cannot know is that Beloved is not helpless or without defense. Beloved is not a prisoner in need of rescue. In fact, Beloved is not even in the Castle this night. And while perhaps the meticulous man can be forgiven for not knowing this, it should also be noted that the Ice Queen is not around either, though her trusted chariot sits untouched in the parking lot of the Castle. There is no reason to suspect that she would borrow the Tinkerer’s chariot for any reason.

Fate. Coincidence. _Conspiracy_.

Now, there is one other thing to consider. One other little twist the universe has in store. Because the meticulous man wishes to expose the corruption in the Castle, he has decided that the best entrance is actually the front door. Armed with a rocket launcher, an explosion aimed downward should offer a wealth of possibilities. An entrance for both him and the Firestarter to step through. A distraction, allowing the Little Sister to sneak into the building as their backup. And a cave in, which should allow access to the seedy underbelly of the Castle, where the meticulous man believes the impossible humans are being held prisoner.

The meticulous man has studied the blueprints of the Castle closely. He knows where the Ice Queen’s laboratory is located, and has several ideas of where Beloved might be found. And in studying those prints, he is positive of his suspicious, because where else would a dungeon be found but in the basement?

There are two ways to deal with the impossible humans that have been kidnapped. One, if possible, rescue them; use them to destroy the Monster. Two, if they cannot be rescued, make sure that the Castle has been destroyed in such a way that when reinforcements arrive, they will discover the crimes this place of science has committed against the impossible people they’ve kidnapped. By caving in the basement’s ceiling, it is possible – likely – that the impossible humans will be discovered.

The twist though, is this: there are two people in the Castle with any utility of movement - the Broken King and the Tinkerer. The statistical likelihood of either one of these people being within the range of the blast when the meticulous man collapses the ceiling in almost infinitesimal.

The Tinkerer is walking away from a prison cell when the meticulous man pulls the trigger of his rocket launcher. Having just delivered a pair of earplugs to the Deaf Musician, the Tinkerer is walking slowly. He is pondering a curious piece of information the Deaf Musician has given him, the whispered taunt that the one who can melt the Ice Queen’s heart is still alive – it’s a lie. It must be a lie. 

(But what if it’s not?)

There is a rumble, in the silence of the basement prison, and there is no one who can hear the Tinkerer’s shout of fear and confusion when the ceiling collapses in on him, knocking him unconscious and trapping him beneath the rubble. His hand is all that is visible, bloodied and peaking out from beneath the fallen concrete, pale and dusty.

Fate or coincidence?

The universe conspires.

***

(SHOW HIM – HOW DOES IT FEEL–)

The year is 2065. There is sorrow and regret and madness. There is looking back and realizing where it all went wrong– 

–blood, so much blood, and that little smile that no one else is ever allowed to see, and the blood smears on the ground and it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not–

There is half a century of regret. And there is an opportunity that has been brewing for nearly all that time, the whispered possibility in the back of a mind half consumed by darkness.

(KILL HIM – can’t – KILL HIM)

A lifetime squandered, but there is a single, shining opportunity to fix this. Illegal, certainly, but that isn’t really a valid concern these days. A one way trip, but that’s no great hardship. Perhaps things will be different, perhaps not. It is a chance that must be taken – and if there is revenge to be found, it will be found there.

(HIS HEART HIS HEART – doesn’t have one – RIP IT OUT)

The year is 2011. It is winter. There is a chill in the air, heavy, piercing, and so a thick winter coat is stolen. How strange it is to look around and see these buildings whole. How strange to see the difference fifty years can make. Feet move, unwitting, and it’s still here, best Chinese food in Central City. How strange to look over and see two men and _recognize_ them, so damned _young_ , smiling at each other over a meal on the town.

(–HOW DOES IT FEEL TO LOSE IT ALL)

And now, the Shooter must steal a gun.

***

The year is 2014. As a meticulous man hefts a rocket launcher on his shoulder and takes a shot, someone is watching. Thousands of miles away, narrow eyes locked on the overhead monitor, the Brute stands at parade rest and observes.

There is opportunity here. Having discovered the cameras that encircle the Broken Scientist’s Playground, the Brute wasted no time in hijacking that signal. At the time, it was unclear as to who was responsible for those surveillance devices, but it seems there is a Petty Thief making plans of his own.

The Brute has been watching. The Broken Scientist is one step ahead – as the Brute once told the other man, quite an impressive feat for a man without the use of his legs. Because this is a brave, new, (terrible) world and these assets are the future of war.

The Broken Scientist has them. The surveillance cameras are proof of that – at least two assets brought to the Playground in the last two weeks. Not to mention, there is a streak of red – an asset so fast he cannot be seen clearly with the naked eye. The tech-monkeys tell him the asset is called “The Flash.”

The tech-monkeys are a pretty useful lot, really. Hijacking the signal for those surveillance cameras. Spotting the signal that emanates from the Broken Scientist’s Playground, and noting that it’s looking for a certain Redheaded Bombshell. Keeping her location under wraps until the Brute is ready to make his move.

Tonight’s operation has been in the works for a while now. Give the Broken Scientist the (false) location of the Redheaded Bombshell; allow a little bit of time for the Flash to put some distance between himself and the man’s Playground. The Flash will be distracted with trying to rescue the Bombshell from the coordinates the Brute sent out – never realizing that she isn’t even there. The entire facility is empty, the buildings sole purpose is to collect as much data on the Flash and how he operates as possible.

There will be a reckoning and the Flash will be added to the military’s assets. But not tonight.

No, tonight the Brute will attack the Broken Scientist’s empty Playground and take the assets the man has already collected. Trapped, helpless – ripe for the picking. Plans were already in place – but right now? Right now, a Petty Thief is offering an opportunity the Brute cannot refuse.

The means will be different, it seems, but the end is what matters.

The Brute speaks into his microphone. “All units, go. Repeat, all units. Go.”

And about two minutes after the Petty Thief and his Muscled Hench step through the rubble that used to be the front door of the Broken Scientist’s Playground, the area is swarmed with men and women dressed in black. They are silent, exuding an economy of movement only found in those who spend a lifetime training together. They are a good team.

(The Brute will not hesitate to execute each and every one of them, if necessary.)

Find and extract the assets. Do not engage with the Broken Scientist or any of his employees. In and out.

The Brute’s team manages to extract three assets before they are forced to retreat because of the arrival of the CCPD. Still, three assets in his complete control, all security footage in the Playground wiped, and no one the wiser of his actions this night? The Brute will count this operation as a success.

***

The year is 1984. A little boy with blue eyes shivers. It is cold, so cold, and his little sister is curled next to him, tucked under his arm to steal as much warmth from his body as she can. His breath frosts the air, and his skin is pale, almost translucent. 

In her sleep, his little sister makes a tiny sound. It is a whimper and it breaks his eight-year-old heart. They have been in this freezer for a long time. Too long. Longer than they’ve ever been locked in before.

Maybe the Monster forgot they are here. Maybe this is where the little boy will die.

But the important thing – the thing the little boy cannot yet know – is that the universe _conspires_.

***


	3. Caitlin-POV: Children of Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this little side-story was created upon the urging of my lovely beta, who was interested in seeing the outline I sent her for “events that happen in this episode but are not seen” fleshed out, and because of the following comment. More specifically, because I found it amazing that someone had some very accurate questions about events that I never actually planned on writing in full :D
> 
>  **Prompt from reader Nevraukowen:**  
>  “This whole chapter is also basically a disaster. The only person this worked out for is Eiling... which, yuck, lol. I hope Cisco is okay! And poor Barry, this is the worst. His current beau collapsing his home away from home on top of one of his best friends and then inexplicably (to Barry anyway) kidnapping his mentor/boyfriend. Not to mention the poor metas that Barry will be worrying about. And the fallout will probably suck too, the police going through STAR labs won't mean anything good... Will they find the cells? The Flash gear/files? How can Barry and Caitlin investigate with Cisco, Wells, or the STAR Labs resources (while the lab is a crime scene)? Does this mean it's time for Barry to call in reinforcements from Starling? How would he even explain this debacle to Felicity and Oliver?”
> 
>  **Set during:** Chapter 35

***

Caitlin Snow does not know where she first heard the phrase “Trouble comes in threes.” 

Ever since she was a child, she has been fascinated by science, by the delicate intricacies of biology. The particulars of the human body have always been clear to her in a way the delicate subtleties of the human heart are not. Facts have been her friends since infancy, and she has never been ashamed of being literally minded.

As a scientist, there is comfort in _knowing_ things. In understanding why pieces fit together, how they react and evolve. The thrill of discovering how they succeed – and the anticipation of predicting if they will fail. Even if that comfort comes from knowing that she knows _nothing_ , Caitlin wouldn’t have it any other way. Science is simultaneously absolute and ever-changing and it is _amazing_.

So it’s a bit odd, that statement about trouble. There is no scientific basis for it, nor is there any real way to test its validity, and yet – inexplicably – it has always proven true. She can call it coincidence or fate, or even an act of God, but the fact of the matter is, things never seem to go wrong in ones or twos. 

(On the worst night of her life, she lost her fiancé, her career, and her future. These three things were connected – but so too were they separate. On the second worst night of her life, she lost her best friend and her mother. She also met Jonathan. Though she didn’t know it at the time, of those three events, that meeting was the worst thing to happen to her that night.)

Unbidden, Caitlin’s right hand snakes out and turns on the radio. She sets the volume low and listens to the garbled static, punctuated by bits of melody and even the occasional, audible phrase.

Caitlin doesn’t want to think about Jonathan. That chapter of her life is long since closed. She doesn’t want to think about Ronnie, either, but – it’s difficult. She misses him terribly. Instead she attempts to keep herself focused on the matter at hand. She is currently following Barry along the coastline, and together they are on their way to rescue Bette. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

Though Caitlin has long since lost sight of Barry, Cisco programmed the coordinates into the car’s GPS, and a woman’s frigid, mechanized voice occasionally directs her: in one mile, turn right. In a quarter mile, bear left.

She has been driving for a while when it happens. One minute she is alone in the car, humming off-tune to some catchy bit of pop on the radio, and the next Barry is sitting in the passenger seat, saying, “Okay, so that was weird–”

Caitlin shrieks, jerking the wheel of the car abruptly to one side, and they almost go careening off the road and into a ditch. Barry reaches over and grabs the wheel, pulling them back on course, and he continues to steer from the passenger seat as Caitlin regains her equilibrium.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Caitlin says at last, voice shrill even to her own ears. Adrenaline courses through her veins, her pounding heartbeat akin to someone compressing her chest. Her breath comes out heavy, panting, deep.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Barry replies, quick and soft, eager to sooth the skittish beast. His hand is still clenched around the wheel. When it becomes clear that Caitlin is ready, his vice-like grip releases, peeling back a finger at a time to relinquish control of the vehicle to her.

“You didn’t find her,” Caitlin finally says, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. She puts her turn signal on, then uses a nearby driveway to make a loop. When she pulls back out onto the main road, they are heading back to Central City.

“No,” Barry replies, tone muted with misery. “The whole place was empty. Just. There wasn’t a single person there. No traps, no people. Long, empty corridors, and no one was home.” 

“That’s–” Caitlin frowns. “That’s very strange. Do you think Cisco retrieved bad information?”

“Maybe?” Barry says. He sighs, forlorn, and it’s clear that he’d hoped – really hoped – to bring Bette home this night. “I don’t know what to think right now. I’m holding out judgement until I’ve had a chance to talk to Harrison about it.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, or perhaps because of it, Caitlin cannot help but gently tease, “Harrison, is it?”

It’s amazing, how quickly a full-grown man can turn such a brilliant shade of red. Barry’s battle to suppress his reaction is adorable; clearly, it’s also a battle he isn’t going to win, pink tingeing both cheeks and creeping down the side of his neck.

“If you say anything about a predictive flow chart, I will be forced to take extreme measures,” Barry finally replies, fidgeting in his seat like an overgrown child, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He continues, “I. Um. I don’t know what those measures are yet. But! They will be taken as soon as I figure it out.”

Startled, Caitlin asks, “How do you know about the flow chart?” Epiphany is a breath away, and she continues, “No. Wait, don’t tell me. Cisco.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Barry’s nod. 

There are many things Caitlin could say in this moment. She could confess to an iota of jealousy, selfish though it may be. She could tell Barry how she misses that – having someone who looks at her as though she is the most amazing person in the world. Because she is broken inside, jagged and raw, and Ronnie – Ronnie didn’t make her feel like she needed to be fixed. Ronnie was broken, too, and together they made something better. Something _whole_.

Instead, quiet but meaningful, she says, “I’m happy for you, Barry. Really.”

“It’s. It’s new? And kind of scary?” Barry replies. Caitlin isn’t looking at his face, eyes on the road. By the tone of his voice, touched with fearful uncertainty, she can picture his eyes are darting nervously around the inside of Cisco’s car, looking for something to focus on. He continues, “I didn’t really think it would – or could? – ever happen. But it’s. I mean, the last person I dated. It was. It didn’t end well. And it’s new but it’s. I mean, I feel – safe?”

“I understand that, more than you know,” Caitlin replies. Unbidden, her mind takes a dark, twisted turn, and the memory is overwhelming.

_You’ve got such a lovely mouth, Cait, but you never smile. Come on, love, where’s my pretty girl?_

She had been toying with fate earlier, when she thought his name. That was – that was a mistake.

Caitlin lets out a breath, deep, easily mistaken for a sigh. Barry, not sensing anything amiss, asks, “Oh, hey. I left my cell phone back in the cortex. Can I borrow yours for a minute?”

“Of course,” Caitlin replies easily. “It’s in the cup holder. Right there.”

Barry retrieves the phone, typing out a quick text. As he does, he explains, “I’m just letting Cisco know we didn’t find Bette. And that I’m gonna’ ride back with you instead of running, because it’s at least a forty minute drive and I don’t want you to get lonely.”

When he’s done typing, Barry moves to put the phone back in the cup holder, but Caitlin says, “Could you put it in my purse? It’s right by your feet. I’m afraid I might forget it otherwise.”

“Sure,” Barry replies, tucking the phone gently into the confines of her open purse. Then, suddenly, he says, “Oh! I love this song!” His hand darts out, faster than the eye can see, and snakes the volume on the radio up, up, up.

What neither Caitlin or Barry think about, in this moment, is that they are currently occupying _Cisco’s_ car. In hindsight, Caitlin will realize that the acoustics in the vehicle are designed for optimal efficiency. She will discover that while there is a spare tire, a jack, and a set of jumper cables in the trunk, the rest of the space is occupied by an oversized box that houses two, massive speakers. 

When Barry turns the volume on the radio _up_ , he very nearly destroys both of their eardrums.

“Ah!” Caitlin shrieks. One hand stays firmly on the wheel, but the other slaps over her ear in an attempt to ward off the sound.

“Crap!” Barry fumbles with the dial, turning it back down to a more manageable volume. “Yikes. Sorry about that, Cait.”

“Yikes,” Caitlin repeats. She puts her second hand back on the wheel, straightening in her seat, then smiles, “Why don’t we try turning it up again, maybe by increments this time, instead of all at once?”

Together they agree on an acceptable volume, and in a few moments, she and Barry have managed to thoroughly distract themselves from their failure to rescue Bette. They spend the entire trip home singing together, loudly and off-key, to the tunes on the radio. Barry, she finds, has a very nice voice when he’s not being embarrassed about it, and he has apparently memorized every trendy pop songs on the radio. Meanwhile, Caitlin herself is rather pleased to have surprised Barry with her accurate renditions of the “classic” rock songs that crop up on occasion.

There are no expectations between them. They don’t talk about their feelings. It’s peaceful, for all that the radio is cranked up to twenty-five. It’s probably the best road trip Caitlin has ever had.

Honestly, that’s probably what makes turning the corner and seeing S.T.A.R. Labs surrounded by flashing red and blue lights even _worse_. Because she’s not expecting it, doesn’t have the time to brace herself. 

And neither does Barry.

“Wha-?”

There are fire trucks, ambulances, police cars. There are a handful of reporters on the scene, standing outside their vans, speaking serenely into rolling cameras. There are so many people bustling around the area that Caitlin’s eyes don’t even know where to look.

Unbidden, she reaches out and turns the radio off. In the vacuum of silence, she can hears sirens and honking and all the sounds of tragedy she hadn’t known she needed to be listening for.

There’s a hole in the front of the building that is her second-home, and that’s as good a place to start as any. A _hole_ , like someone with a giant fist punched through the front doors.

“I – Harrison? Cisco?” Barry stutters out, helpless and horrified. Then, “Your phone–”

Barry reaches into her purse without asking, digging around to find where her phone has fallen. When he locates it, he hits the button on the side with hands that are trembling. Caitlin can’t blame him; her own hands are shaking, weak, but she’s keeping them on the wheel of the car and it’s not as noticeable.

Realizing their position isn’t particularly safe, even a block from the scene of the – accident? Crime? God, she doesn’t know what to call it, at this point. But she does know that none of these people can be allowed to see Barry like this, dressed from head to toe in red, a lightning bolt on his chest. 

“Missed call from ‘Dr. Wells,’” Barry mutters, hitting to call back button, and Caitlin cautiously signals a right-hand turn and pulls out of view of the general populace milling outside of S.T.A.R. Labs. She finds a spot to park on a nearby back road, surrounded on all sides by buildings that have been abandoned since the explosion of the accelerator.

“Goes straight to voice mail,” Barry continues. He makes a second call. “I don’t – maybe if – oh! Joe!”

In the empty silence, coupled with Cisco’s excellent acoustics, Caitlin has no trouble hearing Joe West’s voice on the other end of the phone. He sounds – relieved? Thankful? Neither word completely expresses the emotion in his voice as he addresses Barry.

“Baer! Thank God. Are you okay, son? I’ve been trying to call you – I’m outside S.T.A.R. Labs right now and–”

“I’m fine, Joe,” Barry interjects swiftly. “I’m – I left my phone in the lab, but I’m not there. What happened? Where are Dr. Wells and–”

The detective’s voice is grim. “–and Caitlin? I don’t know, Barry. We’ve got reports of an explosion, everyone is on edge–”

Barry is quick to correct, “Joe, Caitlin’s right next to me. We took Cisco’s car – I’ll explain later – but you need to find Dr. Wells and _Cisco_ –”

On the phone, Caitlin can hear Detective West barking out updated orders, telling the other officers that she is safe and giving a basic description of Cisco Ramon. When he’s done, he tells Barry, “Look, son, that pipeline of yours suffered some damage in this – whatever this is. You need to move those you-know-whos as soon as you can.”

“Oh, heck,” Barry mutters. “The pipeline prisoners–”

“No one’s down there yet, but they will be – very, very, soon. I have to go, Baer. Keep me posted.”

The phone call ends with a click, and Caitlin and Barry look at each other helplessly. Barry is biting his lower lip viciously, worrying the soft flesh between his teeth hard enough to break the skin.

“I don’t. I. What do I do?” Barry whispers, lost. He’s not talking to Caitlin, not really.

Seeing that confusion, that fear, causes something in Caitlin’s mind to kick into overdrive. Cisco and Dr. Wells may be missing, but that doesn’t mean she and Barry are incapable of dealing with this situation until they can be found. 

_Like with Ronnie_ , her mind whispers quietly. Separate, they are broken. Together, they are – not fixed, but – whole. 

“We can do this,” Caitlin says. Her voice breaks on the last word. Not to be discouraged, she clears her throat and repeats, stronger, with confidence. “We can do this, Barry.”

She closes her eyes, picturing the metas in the pipeline. “We – in the beginning, with Clyde Mardon’s bullet wound, we installed a knock-out sedative in the cells, in case we needed to treat them. Use that.”

“Knock them out and – what? Where do I bring them?” Barry asks. He is calming, though, visibly. The panic is fading, replaced by clarity of purpose. They are scientists, the both of them. They have a problem and together, they will find a solution.

“Your speed is the only way to get them out of there without being seen,” Caitlin replies. “Bring them here, pile them in the backseat. That sedative lasts for approximately three hours. We – I mean, I don’t know where to take them, but time is of the essence.”

Barry nods, “Get them out of there first, and we’ll figure the rest out as we go. Okay. Okay.” He breathes in deeply, releases it. “I can do this.” He tosses the cell phone to Caitlin, and then he is gone.

Alone in the car, listening to the sounds of sirens in the distance, Caitlin squeezes her eyes shut and prays fervently. She doesn’t know what’s going on, and she is afraid and lost and confused. She needs – guidance. As she opens her eyes, she glances down at her cell phone and realizes the icon indicative of a voicemail is lit up. As she goes to press it, Barry is sitting next to her once more.

Caitlin twists to look in the backseat of the car. Kyle Nimbus and Danton Black are passed out atop one another, a psychotic, killer puppy pile.

“They’re gone, Caitlin,” Barry says, almost to the point of hyperventilation. “The other metas. Their cells are completely destroyed and – they’re just gone.”

“Do you think–” Caitlin pauses, trying to piece the scene together in her mind. “Could _they_ have done this? Clyde Mardon is certainly powerful enough – and Tony Woodward, he could have destroyed the front of the S.T.A.R. Labs like that!”

Barry shakes his head, “No. No, those cells were busted into from the outside. Whoever did this – I think they were after the metas.”

“I suppose it’s a relief,” Caitlin muses, glancing back at the two unconscious men again, “that they left us the two metas who are most easily controlled. Nimbus is shackled, and Black hasn’t used his abilities since – ah–” She attempts to think of a delicate way to phrase it, settles on, “–that night.”

“I’m going back in,” Barry says. “I’m going to see if I can find Harrison or Cisco. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Will you be okay here, with them?”

“They won’t wake up for a few hours, but–” Caitlin bites her own lip, nervous. “Hurry back anyway.”

And again, she is alone in the car. Or as alone as she can get with two unconscious men in the back seat, one of whom is a hired killer, and the other of whom hasn’t been grounded in reality in months. Realizing she still has her phone clutched in her hand, she presses the icon to access her voicemail, typing in the pass-code when prompted.

The mechanical voice on the other end of the line announces: “You have – one – new message. You have – three – saved messages. Would you like to listen to your messages? Press ‘one,’ now.”

Caitlin presses the button.

When Dr. Wells’ voice, tight, controlled, comes across the line, she nearly drops the phone. “Caitlin,” he says, and his voice is flat, matter of fact. “The labs have been attacked. Leonard Snart and his associate have destroyed the entrance and damaged the pipeline. I believe Cisco is down there; he may be trapped or injured. Eiling is after the metas in the pipeline – I don’t know if he has something planned on your end, but keep Barry safe.”

There is a beep, then: “To repeat this message, press ‘two.’ To save it, press ‘four.’ To erase this message, press ‘nine.’ Would you like to hear those options again?”

Caitlin quickly presses two, phone wedged so firmly against her ear that it throbs in protest. She listens closely to every word, every nuance of Dr. Wells’ tone, and when the message ends again, she presses four to save it. Though she doesn’t have Joe West’s number saved in her cell phone, it is the last outgoing number in her call log, and she quickly hits redial.

Joe answers on the first ring. “Baer?” 

“Detective West,” she says, “It’s me, Caitlin Snow. I just listened to a voicemail Dr. Wells left on my phone. He–”

“Did he say who did this?” West cuts in.

“Leonard Snart or possibly Wade Eiling, it wasn’t entirely clear,” she replies. “But detective, please, Cisco is trapped in the pipeline. Dr. Wells said he might be hurt!”

“I’ll lead the team down there myself,” West states. Then, softer, “Do you know if Barry was able to – ah – take care of that?”

“The pipeline prisoners are safe, detective,” Caitlin replies, understanding his desire for pragmatism even if she can’t fully appreciate it when Cisco might be injured. “Please, Detective, find Cisco.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” West says, and hangs up the phone.

A few more minutes of silence and Barry returns to the car. No matter how often it happens, Caitlin doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it. One moment the seat is empty, the next, Barry is there, looking as though he never left.

At least she doesn’t jump every time anymore.

“I didn’t. I couldn’t find them, Cait,” Barry says, putting his head in his hands. His fingers claw at the cowl of his outfit, as if he is itching to bury them in his own hair. His entire posture radiates defeat. “Harrison’s wheelchair was in the cortex – empty – but he. I don’t know where he _is_ and I – what if he’s hurt? What if–”

“Barry,” Caitlin says, gentle, and she puts her hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Wells – he left us a voice mail.”

Barry’s head shoots up, his eyes hopeful. “Is he okay? Did he say what happened?”

In lieu of a response, Caitlin goes through the proper motions and hands the phone over to Barry. It’s horrible, watching his face as he listens to Dr. Wells’ words. The color seems to drain from his cheeks, made even more pronounced by the bright red of his uniform.

What is going through his mind at this moment, she wonders. Does he know about trouble and threes? Because that’s what it feels like, right now. The safe haven of their lab is in ruins. The metahumans in the pipeline, stolen. And their friends – Cisco, Dr. Wells – injured, missing.

“I. I don’t.” Barry’s eyes squeeze shut, and Caitlin can see there is a hint of wetness gathered at the corners of his lashes. “Damnit, Len,” he whispers.

Caitlin files that away, a question to be asked at a later time. She doesn’t know what the future will bring, but Leonard Snart – Captain Cold – is a problem. Is he working with General Eiling? Was this whole night some elaborate ploy to kidnap the metahumans? To steal Dr. Wells and his research?

Her phone buzzes. Barry answers it immediately. “Joe?”

“We found Cisco, Baer,” Detective West says softly. “He was trapped beneath the rubble in the pipeline; looks like he’s been down there since the initial explosion. We’re digging him out now. He’s unconscious, not sure how bad it is, but the ambulance is on standby. They’ll be taking him to Saint Jude's.”

“And Dr. Wells?” Barry asks quietly.

“No sign of him,” West replies. “I have a few of the techs working with the night watch to get something from the security footage, but – it looks the recordings have been wiped. Whoever is responsible for this knew what they were doing.” The older man pauses, then adds, “We got nothing right now, kiddo. I’m sorry.”

“I. It’s not your fault,” Barry says. Caitlin’s heart breaks a little at his tone. “Me and Cait, we. Um. We have to do something with the metas. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Barry?” Caitlin asks quietly, mindful of how fragile he currently seems.

“Cisco is unconscious – he’s hurt and on his way to the hospital. Dr. Wells is missing. General Eiling has Clyde Mardon, Tony Woodward, and Hartley Rathaway – and he still has Bette. We can’t use S.T.A.R. Labs to do _anything_ right now; it’s a crime scene, we won’t be allowed back in for at least a couple of days.” Barry voice is emotionless. There’s no other way to describe his flat tone. Even if she couldn’t see the blank look in his eyes, Caitlin would be worried.

“We have two metahumans in the backseat, and we need a place to keep them. Black is insane, and Nimbus doesn’t need his powers to be dangerous. We can’t take them to my house – and I’m not going to ask you to put them up in your apartment. We can’t use a hotel or anything public; there’s a chance they’d be discovered.”

Barry falls silent, considering. He turns Caitlin’s phone over in his hands, then dials a number from memory.

Caitlin doesn’t know who he’s calling, but she waits. She hears the phone ring once, twice. On the third ring, a man whose voice she doesn’t recognize – but who sounds strangely familiar – answers, “Hello?”

“Oliver?” Barry says, and the tone of his voice is absolute. “It’s Barry. I need your help.”

***


	4. Eobard-POV: One, Two (buckle my shoe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny piece on how Eobard met Barry for the first time in the year 2174. There will likely be a total of 5 Eobard-POVs in this story, scattered throughout. Little glimpses - the future for some, ancient history for others. 
> 
> **Prompt from reader cardinalstar:**  
>  “But Harribard doesn't know that for certain! Which to me points to some subtle differences between present!Barry and the Flash Eobard knows. Always things I'm curious about.”
> 
>  **Set during:** The Future~ (referencing an event EoWells thought about during chapter 2)

***

The first time their eyes meet, it is across the distance of an auditorium, jam-packed with enforcers and scholars, even the occasional theologian. All of them seated, perched eagerly to see this guest speak, a man who shares a name – and very likely ancestry – with the original creator of the Artificial Intelligences that have become so commonplace in the modern day.

Eobard has been following this man’s work from its inception. It has only been a few months, and yet the papers this man published in quick succession have rocked the AI-community to the very core. Questions on morality, on ethics, on informed consent – not merely of the operator, but of the very system itself – posed in cutting prose, unforgiving and stark. The beauty of this man’s language lies in its simplicity, raw and brutal.

And yet, for someone who speaks with such pressing honesty, very little is known about the man himself. His name and his age, the name of his wife – but his credentials? His doctorates? His mentors? A void. A great, gaping blank. 

Minds of such genius, such beautiful clarity, do not simply fall from the sky like the gentle rain, or perhaps more accurately, the tempest storm. But prior to shaking the foundation of modern technology with the foreign notion of ethics – a feat that most would have claimed absurd not long ago, yet here they sit, eager, breath bated – the man is like a ghost.

Eobard is as fascinated as he is enticed.

When Eobard heard that the man was to give a lecture – sold out within moments of the announcement – there was no power in the universe that could deter him. Procuring the ticket was a costly endeavor, but sitting here in this room, the very air he breathes is charged with anticipation. It is worth the cost, worth any cost, to put a face to the name that has taken to haunting his every waking moment.

Nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared him for the thrill of desire that shoots to his cock the minute the man strides onto the stage. He is – oh, he is _divine_. Confidence in every step, unbowed, unbroken. The applause that erupts at his appearance does not phase him; it flows around him like the parting sea. His build, toned, angular. His face, weathered by a touch of something hard and unforgiving, marked clearly, though not defined by it. His eyes– 

–blue. Gentle, smoky blue. Intense, exceptional– 

And looking directly at Eobard.

It is a sign, most promising, that in a room of the most prominent members of modern society, this man meets his gaze. Twenty-something, young and brilliant, there is no reason this man should pick him out of a crowd.

But he does. Instantly, effortlessly.

 _Barry Allen_ , Eobard murmurs in his mind, savoring the sweetness of the name, finally able to put it to a face. This moment feels – fated. The man raises his hand and silence descends upon the auditorium, and he begins to speak. His voice is like his eyes, intense, exceptional, though his choice of words is curiously antiquated.

Fated, yes. And – perhaps – a touch dangerous.

Eobard’s heart skips a beat, his lips curl up into a smile.

Across the room, at the podium, Barry Allen’s eyes do not waver.

***

The second time their eyes meet, Eobard is rudely pushing his way through the crowd that has flocked to the man’s side. Mr. Allen’s lecture is as riveting as the papers he has published, and now that it is over, there is no one in the room who does not wish for more. It is frustrating, that Eobard is so like the masses in his interest in Barry Allen, but he supposes it cannot be helped. The level of genius is such that even the intellectual sheep have taken notice, and tragically, it is with their belabored bleating he must contend.

Barely able to contain his irritation, Eobard manages to wiggle past a particularly pointy set of elbows and a perfectly horrible high-pitched laugh – his ears are bleeding, yet there is no other alternative – but there is a respectful bubble of space around Mr. Allen, as though he has perfected some sort of invisible force field. One man has penetrated it, a scholar of some girth, clutching Barry Allen’s hand like it belongs to the most revered of religious figures, pumping it up and down with fervor that borders on obsession. Mr. Allen accepts the attention with ease, practically exuding graceful charm, and yet the minute Eobard manages to breach the outer circle, to get within touching distance–

Barry Allen’s blue eyes are intense. He swivels his head to where Eobard stands with unerring accuracy, and there is a tiny jolt that works its way down Eobard’s spine, one centimeter at a time. Five feet away, and the rest of the room falls to silence. The people and their raucous rabble simple fade to a dull constant of painless white noise. It is an out-of-body experience, bordering somewhere between terrifying and tantric.

The older man extracts his hand from the scholar’s hand, politely excuses himself, and somehow in the space of one breath and the next, is standing directly in front of Eobard with an expression of quiet regard on his face. When their hands meet, Eobard swears he feels a shock of electricity where their skin touches.

“Barry Allen,” the man introduces himself, eyes crinkling at the corners, expression so genuine that it actually hurts to look at. The smile he offers borders on sin.

No one looks at Eobard Thawne that way. No one.

 _Until now_ , a tiny, confused corner of his mind points out. The older man is still looking at him, and he realizes that he has yet to let go of Mr. Allen’s hand. He should also probably introduce himself.

When he opens his mouth to do so, he actually stumbles over his own name in his haste. Around them, there is a titter of condescending laughter, and he finds himself blushing in humiliated shame. He very nearly breaks eye contact with Mr. Allen, to look down and away, to hide himself in the face of this social embarrassment.

He doesn’t, though. He’s willful and stubborn, and so what if he forgot his own name for a moment because any of these fools surrounding them surely would have done the same when faced with one of Barry Allen’s smiles– 

–and because Eobard does not look down, he is privy to something – amazing. Inspiring. 

Barry Allen looks around at the scholars and enforcers, the theologians and politicians. He looks at these important, lauded members of society, and his eyes go flat and hard. The judgmental laughter ceases so abruptly, it must have been imagined. When the older man turns his full attention back to Eobard, his eyes are kindly once more, full of warmth.

That transition, from mild-manner herbivore to competent hunter is – oh, it is _incredibly_ attractive, Eobard’s body contributes. He finds his breath quickening, and he must squeezes his thighs together and think of his classmates with their dull, empty minds, and his teachers with their dull, empty questions. _Go away, go away_ , forgetting his own name is one thing, an erection tenting his pants is something else entirely.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you like this, Eobard Thawne,” Mr. Allen says, and something about that wording strikes him as bizarre, but it is quickly forgotten as the older man continues, “My, ah, wife –she’s by the front door, taking names and contact information of interested parties. If you’ll be so kind as to provide yours, you’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

“I – of course, but why?” Eobard asks. Later, he will be appalled at how childish he sounds, but at this moment, Mr. Allen is still holding his hand in a firm yet gentle grip. God, the man is like the sun, a force of nature, radiating heat like a furnace. 

“You strike me as young man who will grow up into – so much more,” Mr. Allen answers quietly. “And I think, for as long as I’m here, I’d be a fool not to be a part of that.”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Allen,” Eobard stutters out. None of the men and women surrounding them are unwise enough to laugh at this second, verbal stumble.

“Please,” and that smile playing at the corner of the older man’s mouth should be fucking _outlawed _, “Call me Barry.”__

The hand on his tightens for just a moment, a silent promise, and then Eobard is released. The noise filters into his ears once more, snippits of conversation and polite laughter. If he stays, he knows he will spend the rest of the night standing unobtrusively against one of the auditorium’s walls, watching Barry Allen mingle. Instead, he makes his way to the exit with the highest concentration of people, leaves his information with an older, rather pretty woman who must be Mr. Allen’s wife, and escapes to his home.

Flattered doesn’t cover what he feels at this moment, but it is the very first inadequate word that comes to mind. 

(And if he spends the rest of the night pouring over Mr. Allen’s – Barry’s – published works, then falls asleep with his hand on his cock, remembering the weight of those amazingly blue eyes – well, that’s no ones business but his own.)

***


End file.
